Little Creeping Things

by Chelsea Ichaso

  “What about me?” Asher asks. “You need two people with you to ask for physics help?”

  “Maybe you should stay in the car.” I smirk. “You can be the getaway driver.”

  Gideon sits up in his seat. “Or we’re just the distraction. We provide Asher the opportunity to sneak around outside and dig up stuff on Seth.”

  “I might even be able to get inside,” Asher offers.

  “No.” Gideon shakes his head. “Too risky. Seth might be home. Cass and I can manage in there. I just want to know more about Seth. If he was seeing Melody, or if he got called in for questioning. I’m hoping Emily will give me something.”

  “Try taking your shirt off,” Asher suggests.

  Gideon rolls his eyes and unbuckles his seat belt. “Okay, so that’s the plan. One small problem though. How’s Cass going to convince Emily she needs help on an assignment?”

  I hadn’t thought that far ahead. My grades are the one thing I have in common with Asher. The difference is my brother flew through school barely reading more than the titles of his textbooks, whereas I spend all my free time studying.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Asher says. “Emily won’t be listening to Cass. Not with Gideon in her bedroom.” He has a point. I unbuckle my seat belt and ease the door open. Asher whispers, “Wait. What am I looking for?”

  “Something of Melody’s,” Gideon answers. “See if Seth’s car is unlocked. If not, dig through the trash.”

  “You two are buying me ice cream for real after this.”

  Gideon and I click the doors shut quietly, leaving Asher in the driver’s seat as we tiptoe down the dark street. There’s a chill in the night air, and I zip my hoodie up higher. When we reach the sidewalk, I whisper, “What are we going to do if Seth answers the door?”

  “Ask for Emily, I guess.”

  “Or we could just ask him if he took Melody,” I say wryly.

  “Trust me, I would. But if he knows we’re on to him, he’ll be less likely to make a mistake.”

  The porch lights are off as we approach the house, but there’s a black or gray Honda parked in the driveway. Gideon rings the doorbell, and my heart thumps. I feel like a criminal, skulking in the shadows, waiting for someone to open the door. Keep breathing. We’re just here for homework help.

  There’s no answer, so he rings it again. My gaze darts from one dark window to the next. “I don’t think anyone’s home,” I whisper. Gideon rings the doorbell one last time before we shuffle back down the steps.

  I motion for Asher to come out of hiding. His door clanks shut, and he emerges from the darkness, flashlight in hand. “No one home?”

  “Nope,” Gideon answers. “Let’s see if the car’s unlocked.” He tries the handle, but it doesn’t open. “No luck.”

  “I guess whoever has the flashlight should probably take trash duty.” I nudge Asher.

  “We’d better hurry,” he says. “The neighbors are going to see us digging through the trash and call the cops.”

  “It’s fine. The cans are on the side of the house,” Gideon says, pointing. Headlights emerge in the distance, and he gestures for us to get down. My heart pounds as I duck behind the Honda. If it’s Seth or Emily, we’re caught.

  The blinding lights near us, and my heartbeat quickens. Cold, rough cement digs into my palms. My eyes shut. But the lights dim behind my lids as they pass by the Greer home. We release a collective breath.

  I stand up. “I’m done.” Despite the cold air, my hands are clammy. “This is stupid.” We’re not even focusing on the right suspect. “The cops can do this.”

  “Cass, the cops aren’t doing anything,” Gideon snaps. “If they were, you and I would’ve been called in by now. We have to do something.” Soft rays from Asher’s flashlight trickle over him as he stands up, pained eyes fixed on the front door. His hands lift and fall at his sides. If Melody never turns up, he’ll always feel this way. I want to tell him exactly how he can help. I want to fix this for him.

  I sniff, biting my lip to hold back the tears, and place a hand on his shoulder. But his body stiffens. Asher’s light flits from Gideon to me, like a question.

  Maybe I can tell the truth. Yes, Brandon will turn in the notebook. But if I get the cops looking in the right direction, they might find the proof to nail him. They might even find Melody alive.

  Gideon and I stare at the asphalt. It blends into the night, encasing us in a giant, black sphere as my mind wrestles with itself.

  We clamber into the car in silence, and Asher starts the engine. As we trail away, light winks at one of Seth’s windows. Someone’s watching us.

  * * *

  Asher parks in the driveway, but we don’t make it to the door before it opens. My mom emerges, hand on hip. She points from me to Gideon. “Two detectives came by here looking for you.”

  Gideon and I exchange a look. A sob racks my body. My mom gathers me into her arms as I burst into tears.

  “It’s going to be okay, Cassidy.” She helps me inside and onto the sofa, taking a seat beside me. Asher slouches into the recliner across from us. “They just want to go over what you told Sheriff Henderson.”

  Gideon remains standing, shifting nervously. “Mrs. Pratt, did they say anything else?”

  My mom digs a card from her pocket. “They said for you to call this number.” She shakes her head. “They wanted you both to come in tonight, but I said it was a school night and they’d have to wait until tomorrow.”

  Gideon straightens. “Mrs. Pratt, I really think we should call now. It’s not that late, considering it could make all the difference in the world for Melody Davenport.”

  My mom inhales deeply. “That’s up to your mother, Gideon. I already left her a message, so she should be calling soon. I’m not sure if Cassidy’s in any shape to be interviewed tonight. But Cass,” she says, turning to me, “if you decide to go, I’m coming with you. You kids are too young to be handling all of this without an adult.”

  She ambles to the kitchen, and Gideon takes her place on the sofa, wrapping an arm around me. “Well? Think you can handle talking to those detectives?”

  His dark eyes soothe me until I feel myself nod. I’ll show the cops the threat, explain what’s written in the notebook. Maybe they’ll believe my version of events; maybe they won’t. But I have to try. “Just let me wash up.”

  In the bathroom, I splash some water over my face and look up at my reflection, hoping the cops won’t read the guilt oozing from my red, puffy eyes.

  As I take the towel down from the rack to dry off, my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I slide it out and unlock the screen. Another message from Unknown pops up, and my vision zooms in and out of focus, so I can barely read the words.

  Hope the cops don’t find Melody’s phone.

  Keep playing with fire and you’re going to burn.

  Or burn the ones you love.

  The lines chill me through, but they aren’t the only reason I’m paralyzed minutes later as Gideon calls empty words through the bathroom door. His light knocking turns to pounding, the doorknob rattles, and his voice grows louder and more desperate.

  There’s a photo of me attached to the message.

  I’m wearing a white T-shirt and spandex shorts, but I’m not in the gym; I’m crouched somewhere I never should’ve been in the first place. My saucer eyes gape at the camera and smoke fills the background.

  I know the photo well. Because Melody showed it to me after she took it.

  Two weeks ago. On Election Day.

  9

  “Cass, hello? What’s going on?” Asher’s voice now. More hammering. “Open the door!”

  There are no windows in the bathroom; still, my gaze ricochets in all directions, searching the walls. I fumble the phone over the sink and then clasp it tightly between both hands. I stuff it in my pocket. Breathe. With trembling fing
ers, I turn the doorknob.

  As soon as the door cracks, Asher shoves his way in. “Why didn’t you answer us? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  Brandon is watching me.

  Or has it been Seth this whole time? Is it really a coincidence that this threat was sent minutes after I snooped around his house?

  Whoever he is, he doesn’t just have the notebook. A shiver wracks my body. Somehow, he got into Melody’s phone.

  Asher hovers over me for a few beats. Then he shakes his head and wanders back down the hall.

  I try to shoulder past Gideon, but he blocks the doorway, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Hey, are you okay?”

  I let my head dip. “I’d rather wait until tomorrow to talk to the cops.”

  Gideon jerks back. “Cass, I know this is rough, but think of Melody. We’re the only witnesses.”

  It’s impossible to think of anything but Melody. I’m thinking about how that gold necklace was wrenched from her neck. I’m hearing those bone-chilling sounds she made before going silent. “I know, but I’m not feeling well.” This is true. All my resolve to face the detectives and tell them the truth has crumbled into tiny fragments. They’re churning now in my stomach. Whoever’s doing this knows I had a motive.

  Gideon guides me back to the living room. He sits beside me, placing a hand on mine. The phone presses into the underside of my thigh. I dig it out, rubbing my fingers over it, desperate to show him the message.

  Asher wanders in holding a glass of water. I take it, my phone sliding to one hand. “Thanks,” I mumble as he moves to the recliner.

  If I share what’s on my phone, the two people I love the most will try to intervene. And this maniac will do whatever it takes to protect himself. He’ll make sure I’m locked up, and this town will think Melody was right about me all along.

  If that’s not enough, he’ll find other ways to silence Asher and Gideon.

  Until I figure out who’s doing this and find proof, I can’t say anything. To anyone. I sip the water, letting the possibilities tumble through my brain.

  Brandon hated Melody. The most obvious answer is that the notebook never made it into my purse. It fell and he found it. Or he reached under the diner table and snatched it when I wobbled off to the restroom. I’d had so much to drink that I simply believed he could be trusted.

  Still, someone was watching us at Seth’s house. Maybe Melody wasn’t exaggerating when she said he was stalking her. It would explain the scene outside the diner and his presence the night of the party. He could’ve noticed the notebook fall from my purse. It gave him a plan and someone to frame for it. And a smart guy like Seth could’ve figured out her phone password.

  “Cass.” Gideon removes his hand, twisting to look at me. “Your mom can drive us to the station. We’d probably be back in an hour.”

  “I’ll go first thing in the morning.”

  Gideon opens his mouth to protest, but Asher straightens. “Let her sleep, Gideon. You can call and talk to the detectives now. They don’t need both of you right this second.” He rests his head on his palm. “You’re just going to repeat the same story.”

  Gideon scoots to the edge of the sofa. “I never know what story Cass is going to tell these days.” He stands and trudges down the hall. Moments later, he returns with his backpack, continuing past us to the front door.

  “Gideon.” The phone is heavy in my fingers. No matter what I do, I’m going to lose him.

  “Tell your mom thanks for dinner.” He opens the door and strides out. I have the urge to run after him. To show him the text messages. To tell him what Brandon said at the party. Mostly, though, I want him to stay.

  And he wants to get as far away from me as possible.

  The door clicks shut and Asher raises a brow. “What was that about?”

  My phone is starting to slip from my sweaty fingers. “He thinks I’m keeping things from him.”

  “Are you?”

  If I lie one more time tonight, my soul is going to melt into a black puddle on the floor. I bite my bottom lip to keep the words and the tears back.

  “It’ll be fine,” Asher says. “I’ll talk to him.” He runs a hand over his dark hair. I notice the smooth, shiny pink skin that runs along his left palm, puckering into a ridge that disappears beneath his sweatshirt sleeve. The scars continue up his arm. There are more on his right forearm. He shouldn’t have those marks, those permanent reminders of what a disappointment he has for a sister.

  When I was seven years old, I was playing out back with a neighbor, Sara Leeds—Melody’s younger cousin and the reason Melody has made my life in Maribel a living hell.

  My dad had built us an enormous wooden playhouse with white scalloped trim, functioning windows, and slatted shutters. There was a little plastic table inside, and my mom let Sara and I decorate it with an old tablecloth and some tiny porcelain teacups. Sara and I brought our dolls for a tea party. Mine looked like me, blue eyes and brown hair, and Sara’s had blue eyes and blond hair like she did.

  We were being kids, feeding our dolls cakes made of grass and pebbles on the fancy tea set. But I had an idea to make it even fancier. My mom kept some old candles in the garage, and I’d seen where they kept the fire starter in the kitchen drawer. Sara agreed that a candlelit table would take our tea party to the next level.

  I dug up the candles and lit them after several fumbled attempts, the scent of apple pumpkin spice swirling around us.

  I turned around to bake up some more of those lovely cakes, knocking one of my mom’s china teacups onto the floor. It shattered, and Sara threatened to tell on me.

  I moved toward her, begging her to keep quiet. But I bumped the candle. It toppled over, and the whole place went up in flames. Smoke soon filled the space, and before anyone heard our screams, I passed out.

  That’s what I think happened. The last thing I really remember is yelling at Sara to shut her mouth about that stupid teacup.

  I woke up in the hospital. All I cared about was my doll. I kept asking about it until my mom finally told me it was gone. Burnt up. Later, I learned that Asher pulled Sara and me out, but only I survived.

  And I haven’t stopped hearing about it since.

  I was closer to the playhouse door when Asher got to us. I bear faint scars on my legs, where some burning boards fell on me. Asher’s scars are from when he went back in for Sara and the rest of the place crashed into a flaming heap. The scars—both of our scars—aren’t just a reminder to Asher; they’re a reminder to me of how I killed my first friend and almost killed my brother.

  Now, I tear my gaze from the marks and shake my head. “No, Asher. I can handle Gideon myself.”

  His shoulders sag. “Okay. Forget it.” He stands up and walks off down the hall. Regret pinches my insides.

  I follow suit, shutting myself in my room. I try to finish my homework, but my mind continues to wander. The closest thing I have to a homework-related thought is about Gideon. Poor Gideon. He’ll never finish his English homework without me. Mostly though, I think about Melody and about the threats on my phone. And if there’s any way to get this guy without losing everything.

  * * *

  The next morning, two detectives are on my porch. The one who greets me is a tall man with dark curls. “Good morning. Cassidy Pratt?”

  I nod.

  “I’m Detective Reyes from the Oregon State Missing Persons Division. This is Detective Sawyer.” He motions to a stout woman whose brassy hair is pulled back into a bun.

  “Hi.”

  “Is it okay if we ask you a few questions?”

  I scan the houses around us. Whoever’s doing this could be watching me right now, waiting for an excuse to make good on his threats. “You should come in. My mom will want to know you’re here.”

  “Not a problem. Thank you.” Detective Reyes al
lows his partner to scoot past him inside the house.

  I shut the door and gesture toward the living room. “Please have a seat. I’ll get my mom.”

  “Thanks,” says Detective Sawyer, continuing through the foyer, toward the sofa. I scurry down the hall to my parents’ room, my heart thumping.

  When I return, following in my mom’s wake, the detectives introduce themselves again. My mom nods nervously, and I cower two steps behind her. Detective Reyes stands. “This shouldn’t take too long, ma’am. We just need to go over your daughter’s statement from the day Melody disappeared.”

  My mom turns to me with an uncertain look. “Maybe I should call my husband.”

  He smiles warmly. “It’s just a routine follow-up. Cassidy is a witness, nothing more.” He points to a photo on the mantel. “Is this the rest of the family?” My mom perks up and follows him to the other side of the room, no doubt eager to blab about Asher.

  That leaves me with Detective Sawyer. She looks nice enough. Her head flicks to the empty space beside her on the sofa, and I sit. “So Cassidy, Sheriff Henderson gave us your statement. We’re just here to follow up on a few things. We spoke to your friend”—she flips through a notepad like she can’t remember—“Gideon Hollander. Why was it you didn’t want to talk last night?”

  Someone is pinning this on me. “I wasn’t feeling well. I think all the stress from everything with Melody got to me.”

  Detective Sawyer stares at me, unblinking for a long beat. “Sorry to hear that,” she says, flipping back through her notepad. “Now, there’s one thing I’m still a little unclear on.” Her lips twist. “Why did you and Mr. Hollander go to Melody’s house instead of the sheriff’s station?”

  “Like I told Sheriff Henderson, I couldn’t be positive about what I’d heard. The forest was noisy, with the birds and the creek. And I didn’t see anything. I didn’t want to alarm everyone until I was sure.”

  “If you weren’t sure what you’d heard, how did you know the voice belonged to Melody Davenport?”